


A Love of Words

by panicattackkisses



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drabbles, F/M, Fluff, Smut, rare words
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-02
Updated: 2015-11-23
Packaged: 2018-04-29 15:21:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5132525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/panicattackkisses/pseuds/panicattackkisses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of drabbles, inspired by rare words. These chapters will not necessarily have a continuous plot line, or be in any kind of order.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Anecdoche** :

_(n.) A conversation in which everyone is talking but no one is listening._

 

When did the boy become the devil? Her boy. A boy as good as gold and with features of ash and smoke and rust. Stiles used to be a mess of paper with notes scrawled across them, equations and freckles on his face that were real and sometimes ink. He was dark and light and shockingly honest, his lips soft and his words quick and sharp like his tongue. Her boy.  
  
Her boy was thunder now, lightning and rain - a earthquake in their group waiting to crack the world apart with dust and splinters. He wasn’t even really her boy.

Everyone yelled, no one spoke. Everyone had something to say, but no one could be bothered listening in return. Which is why Lydia stood in the McCall’s living room, tears of frustration blurring her vision, her lips parted, waiting for her turn to speak, to be heard over the tension and testosterone that flooded the room.

Stiles Stilinski was yet to say more than five words to her, but he seemed to have no issue talking  _about_ her, ignoring the way she stood slightly behind him. He was yelling at Scott, his hair wet and plastered to his forehead, soaked from the ever present storm that seemed to have set up permanent residency over Beacon Hills. His shirt was wet through, stretched with the weight of the water and now the same colour as the smokey skies outside the window. He yelled and gestured wildly, matching Scott’s own wide arms and quick hands, both boys dripping rain onto the rug below.   
Lydia’s lip quivered and her voice was weak, her own body cold from the rain. Kira watched her, carefully and with her own frustration clouding her dark eyes. Everyone was getting louder, even the thoughts and voices in Lydia’s head.

“She’s not going back there! I don’t give a  _fuck_ , Scott, I’m not letting it happen!’’

Lydia winced as Stiles back stiffened, the muscles under his shirt becoming tense. Beads of water rolling from his hair down to the back of his neck and he was so still. She watched, her lips still parted, the words still sitting on her tongue and tasting like an argument. They were bitter, cold and they left her feeling heavy inside.

Stiles’ voice was hoarse and rough, a stark contrast to Scott’s soft and cajoling words, but both boys were ready for a fight. They were already battle worn, heavy and tired and bearing scars from both the bad guys and each other. Lydia closed her eyes, hating the venom that laced everyone’s lips, the anger and frustrations that made the air too thick. She hated the fact that she simply enjoyed hearing Stiles’ voice at all, even more.   
  
“Stiles, we’ve spoken about this’’, Scott’s voice was low and commanding, his hand reaching out to offer some sort of comfort, some kind of support, “We need all the help we can get.’’

“Bullshit!’’ Stiles spat, avoiding his touch, “No! I’m not letting her go back in there! You’ll have to climb over my cold, fucking body, Scott, if you think you’re taking Lydia back into that place.’’

“Stiles,’’ Lydia tried, her hand hovering just by his shoulder, still scared to reach out to him, terrified at the possibility of rejection.

Not one of the boy’s acknowledged her. Kira stood beside her, wrapped her hand around Lydia’s instead. The room was quiet and no one spoke, no one listened and the storm rumbled outside, annoyed and tired of the world it hovered over - intent on creating havoc.  
  
“Stiles,” Scott tried, his voice, tired, helpless.

“No! Were you the one who had to go in there? Huh? Try and find her in that sick, fucking place? Did you have to see her tied up like that, Scott? Huh?’’

The wind outside roared and Stiles was spitting flames, his own storm picking up speed, lightening resonated in his soul, thunder lived in his lungs.

“I know, okay? I know, man, but -’’ Scott’s voice turned softer still and Stiles shattered a little, his muscles dropping from their defensive pose.

“You  _don’t_ know Scotty, you really fucking don’t. They, they had her strapped to a fucking table, she couldn’t move and she was freezing! Freezing cold. She, she had blood-’’ Stiles’ voice dropped and cracked, a tremor running through it as he rubbed at his temples.

Lydia took a step forward, and outside, the weather wailed in warning.

“- there was blood all over her, fucking  _drills_ hanging on the wall Scott! She couldn’t move and you, y - you want to take her back in there?!’’

Lydia realised she was crying when she saw that Stiles was doing the same. Both of them with silent tears; wet tracks trailing down their cheeks from glassy eyes that had seen too much. Their lives were like a fucking horror movie and Lydia swore that sometimes the world turned to black and white.

Scott moved forward, taking his best friend by the shoulders with strong hands, talking to him in a hushed voice, his own eyes betraying the strength he was trying to show. Stiles flinched under the contact and Lydia drew in a deep, stuttering breath at the sight.

(Stiles was broken and it was because someone, a few weeks ago, had tried to break her.)

“I know it’s hard okay? I know, it’s not fair, I don’t want her to do it either, but Stiles, she’s the only one that Valack will talk to,’’ Scott pleaded, “We’ll all look after her, okay? And-’’

“SHE DIDN’T  _RECOGNISE_ ME, SCOTT.’’

The dam broke, the world flooded and lightening struck. Stiles jerked away from the other boy, his hands flying to his head as he gripped his hair in his fists tightly. He shrunk before Lydia’s eyes, his chin curling down to his chest as his raised arms hid his face from her view, her worried eyes.

“I got to that room and, and - she, Lydia didn’t fucking know who I was.’’

Stiles’ voice was low and steady, the crack of it masked by the deep breaths he took. The room was silent and Scott looked pained, his brow furrowed and the weight of the world holding it down. Lydia shook, her mind scattered at hearing the boy say her name. It had been weeks and days and hours and minutes and centuries since she had heard it from his lips and it sounded so fucking foreign and alien to her, that it  _hurt_ , it stabbed at her heart like a fucking battle axe. She hadn’t realised Kira was still there, holding onto her, until her knuckles turned white from gripping her friends hand.

Stiles moved back, meeting her halfway before dropping onto the sofa that held mismatched cushions and a throw that they had all wrapped around them at one time or another. Stiles sat with his head in his hands, closer to Lydia than he had been all week. He was breathing heavily, with stuttering, gasping breaths that made the muscles in his back ripple and strain against his wet shirt.   
She worried her bottom lip with her teeth, rubbing it raw until she tasted blood and made her decision. Lydia dropped Kira’s hand, glancing at the girl who nodded in understanding.   
Slowly, hesitantly, she walked with small steps to the sofa, letting herself drop down beside Stiles. He didn’t look at her, he didn’t speak to her but he squeezed his eyes shut instead, acknowledging her presence with pain. Outside, the wind shook the world and it cried cold, frozen rain.

They sat together as the words he spoke shook through the group, Liam and Hayden standing by the doorway, terrified to intrude on an argument that was so much more horrific than it seemed.

All eyes were on them as Stiles’ breathing return to normal, gained more strength. But still, he did not look at the girl. ‘Cause she was death and he was war and together they were a battlefield, both too scared to talk, to touch, in case they started something dangerous. Their relationship was created in chaos - and tragedy and horror fed it, kept it strong. Love was shown through sacrifices and savings, not kisses or date nights, and everything was still so unsure and raw and Lydia didn’t know what to do.

(‘Cause the boy was broken, ‘cause someone tried to break  _her_ \- and he seen it happen.)

“She was so  _cold_ and her skin was covered in b-bruises ‘cause those sick fucks  _chained_ her down and stuck  _needles_ in her, Scott!’’ His voice started as a whisper but grew with the horror of his words, his eyes squeezing shut tightly, trying to rid himself of the images, the memories.

It was Lydia who reached him first, dropping down to the floor in front of Scott who had only managed to take one step toward his friend. Lydia’s hands shook as she wrapped her fingers around the boy's wrists, each one hardly managing to fit fully around him. But she pulled gently, trying in vain to encourage him to come out of whatever horrible thought his mind had trapped him in.

She was crying still, constant and quietly, the tears rolling down her face, the salt leaving a reminder of it on her lips.

And her mother told her when she was young, to never love a wild thing. Watching Stiles, with his fists clenched and white knuckles, his brow furrowed, his eyes dark and his lips curled - Lydia knew. Lydia knew then, that she never ever really listened to her mother in the first place.

So she moved into the boy, the closest to him she been to him in a while. She crawled on her knees until she was tucked into the space between his knees, bracketed by his arms. She felt his body against hers, their ribcages bumping and clashing with every jarring breath they took, the warmth from his skin radiating and searing into her own. Lydia was sure it was the anger that was making him burn and her own cheeks flushed with it, but he didn’t flinch when her hand fell on his cheek, her fingers curling around his jawline in a way they were both too familiar with. And it hurt to touch him, to feel him under her palms again, ‘cause it had been so long and his skin was still soft and his hands were still calloused around her wrist despite the all blood that had been spilled on it.

Scott weakened above them, still standing in the middle of the room with pain on his face and sadness in his eyes. His gaze met Lydia’s and she soothed the apology in his with a smile on her lips. The alpha shook his head and shrugged and she knew, the girl always knew, that he didn’t mean to cause this - he didn’t want to do any of this. 

The bruises were still on Lydia’s skin, faint and nothing but a dull ache, but they were there. They painted her skin in shades of lilac and lime, red and pink and navy around the edges and as thick as the straps that had bit into her skin. They coated her thighs, her wrists and her chest, in places that Stiles still hadn’t seen and Lydia vowed to never show him until they were gone from her body and his memory.   
They framed the pinpricks that were dotted over her veins, they dusted over the track marks on her arms that the needles made, one after the other, after the other, after the other. There were so many of them, like little freckles on her skin, tiny dots that the sun hadn’t given her the summer she was stuck in that room. Scott didn’t want to take her back into the building, no one did, but the pack needed her and she needed them.

Stiles was the storm outside, telling the world below it to go fuck itself. He was the wind that picked up the earth and the thunder that yelled in anger. He was also the only bit of sun left in Lydia’s life and she found it everytime he stared at her when he thought she didn’t notice.

So when his hand curled around her wrist, she flinched as if she had been burned. But Stiles was touching her, allowing her fingers to splay across his cheekbone without pulling away and he was finally fucking looking at her, his whiskey coloured eyes showing the same sheer panic she had witnessed years before, in a locker room with damp tiles and steam from empty shower stalls.   
But his breathing was in check and under control and fresh tears rose to her eyes and tightened her throat and Lydia almost broke all over again when she realised the horror he held in his body was for her, the terror he felt was all for her.  
  


The girl nodded, because her chest was too tight to talk and she knew how he felt. She was too aware of the utter, unimaginable dread that caused your stomach to sink to the floor below you, the feeling that came when a loved one was in danger, near death, unreachable. Stiles had been unreachable for weeks, so detached and so, so fucking far away that sometimes, Lydia felt like she couldn’t breath. Now he was under her fingertips, staring at her like she had hung the stars and the moons and the cosmos with ribbons of pure gold and goddamn magic. He gripped her, almost too tightly, almost too painfully, almost leaving her with finger shaped bruises that for once, she wouldn’t have minded having on her body.

 

Her forehead touches his without her really knowing it, but Lydia feels more warmth radiate from him to her and this time it tingles rather than burns. His hand trails a little bit higher, from her wrist to just a fraction up, enough for his thumb to skim over her palm once, twice, before it stays there. He clings and clings and doesn’t let go, ‘cause the last time he held her she was bleeding in his arms and didn’t know his name. Doctors took her away from him - the good kind - who told him patiently that they would help her, but he didn’t believe them and he pulled away from the friends that held him back, roaring until he couldn’t see the copper curls that lay on the gurney, until he sunk to the white tiles that smelled of antiseptic and death.

(He still doesn’t remember how he got home.)

He cried for nights when she was released. Broken sobs that  _wrecked_ his chest and left his throat dry and his dad sitting at the end of his bed at three am. It was pure relief, complete, unhibited solace, taken from the fact that she was alive and safe and in her own bed, in her own home.  
When he visited her, late one night when the drugs had left her too tired to keep her eyes open, her mother had let him in, cleared a space for him on the edge of her bed with a smile that was heavier than the world. Stiles had seen the blackened stitches that held together the wound in her head, soiled with dried blood that left her hair a little matted. She had still been still pale, still a patchwork of bruises and just like the first time he saw her in that hell hole, bile had risen in his throat and left a bitterness on his tongue and he choked on the sobs that had haunted him every fucking night since she was taken from him.  
  


He left before she woke and the days at school dragged when he refused to meet her eyes ‘cause he was so fucking scared that he’d look at her and she’d look back, confused and terrified and unable to remember who he was, just like last time. So Stiles avoided her and he hated himself a little more, every fucking day. It ate at him, bit away little parts of what was left of his soul.   
It killed him to drop his gaze when she entered a room, to look away from the beginnings of the smile she was directing to him. And it never fucking mattered anyway ‘cause Lydia Martin lit up a room like a firework, a colossal explosion that he saw no matter where he looked. He felt her too, always, near him, beside him, behind him. Like there was a goddamn rope attaching them together and he felt the pull in his chest, the tug on his spine whenever she walked away. He always wanted to follow.

(But he didn’t.)

And for the first time in weeks, he touched her, held her. And this time, she was awake and with him and he could feel the blood pulsing in her veins beneath his hand, smell the perfume that clung to her hair. She knew his name, ‘cause she was whispering it to him, soft and sweet and desperate.

(He could have sworn, if he concentrated really hard, he could see her heart beat flutter under her skin.)

He let her in, in the most physical sense, because Lydia was crawling between his legs, kneeling on her own on the cold, wooden floor as she cradled his face in her hands that were too small, until he lifted he his head and looked at her. Stiles was sure he softened, then, a little bit of the anger flooding out of him, because the girl calmed too. His emotions were mirrored in her, in her words, her voice, her body, her eyes. Lydia’s forehead bumped with his, soft and clumsy and uncaring and all the while, fingertips stroked over the skin on his cheeks and his name was whispered like a mantra - better, sweeter, lovelier than a fucking lullaby coming from her lips - until the boy stopped feeling fear and she did too.

Her hair fell around both of them and it seemed like everyone else in the room held their breaths ‘cause silence surrounded them. Neither were sure who was holding up who but together, they held on and created a shelter from the storm outside.

Her boy was definitely the devil. But the thunder in his ribcage calmed and his eyes held a little bit of gold again. Lydia wasn’t sure if it had actually faded, or just hadn’t been close enough to notice it for a while now. She wiped away the ash and dust that clung to him and later, much later (maybe years later) she knew he would kiss the marks that the needles left and he would paint over her bruises with his lips that would still quiver at the memories they shared.   
But for now, his hand was still on hers and she let him trace words and paintings into his skin on Scott’s living room floor. They still hadn’t spoken, not really, not much. But he was definitely her fucking boy.

He knew it too, knew it without words, knew it in the way he clung to her helplessly, like a fucking life line. Like she was the only thing tethering him to his fucked up little world. If you asked, the boy wouldn’t deny it, and months from now, and again, maybe years from now, Liam would laugh and tell him he was whipped and Stiles would probably just nod and agree, a smile on his face that Lydia shadowed. ‘Cause the girl had owned him from when they were not much taller than three feet, both with teeth that wobbled and hair that still curled out from their foreheads.   
He didn’t know back then, that the monsters under his bed were in fact real and he certainly didn’t know what it felt like to have your best friends blood under your fingernails. But he knew about Lydia. 

Those thoughts slipped from his mind because Lydia was rocking them now, ever so slight motions that matched the softness of her voice, his name still on her lips, low and throatier now and the sound hit him in the chest like a fucking bulldozer. It stirred everything up inside him and left nothing but warmth and the urge to crush her to him. But he didn’t (not now, not yet). Stiles felt like he was floating and he let the girl do whatever the hell she pleased because she moved closer and their eyelashes feathered against each other in a way that made both of their breaths hitch. And Stiles Stilinski was a sucker for that sound.

She was so close to him, she could feel his slow, hitched breaths fan out across her lips and something under her ribs was  _thundering_ and it shouldn’t have been her heart ‘cause there’s no way it could be beating that fast (it was). Lydia rocked and swayed them until the boy’s breath stopped stuttering and there was less tension in his body. She rocked and swayed and moved them together until her breath hitched and her heart was close to bursting ‘cause she was so  _close_ to Stiles and his fingers were painting patterns on her palm, his fingers moving deftly over her skin until she felt delirious. She wasn’t even sure if he knew he was doing it.

(He did.)

She whispered to him again, repeatedly, as if she thought the boy wasn’t listening to her but he was.

(Stiles always listened to Lydia.)  

 


	2. Monachopsis.

**Monachopsis** :  
 _(n.)_ _The subtle persisting sense of being out of place._

  
Lydia isn't sure when she became invisible, but with a town full of werewolves, kitsunes and banshees, she really shouldn't have been that surprised. It started when she would manage to finish entire books during pack meetings, full scriptures written in Latin about moon phases and its effects on the supernatural, or cheesy romance novels that held too much hope for real life. But they took a her away to a world where there were no monsters and girls didn't fall in love with werewolves or vampires. It's sometimes better that way. She escaped. But then the book would end and she would discover that night in the shower that she had gripped the pages so hard she had smudges of ink on her fingertips. She clung to the words because her reality is so much more horrible than fake roses and petal covered bed sheets.

('Cause Lydia had painfully discovered that life is so much darker than the front cover of a book that was adorned with red hearts and pink calligraphy.)  
  
Lydia's life is quiet and blurred around the edges, out of focus and out of place and she only seems to part her lips to scream. She goes to school and maintains good grades. She walks her dog and washes her hair and on Sundays she attends brunch with her mother. But inside, she knows the colour of her friends blood too well, the metallic scent that it leaves in the air clings to her clothes instead of Chanel no.5. It shades her dreams red.

(Her best friend lived behind her closed eyelids instead of solid ground and her pack is falling apart in front of her, bit by bit, piece by piece.)

Scott would shout more than he used to, berating Liam for losing control too easily, for letting his temper get the better of him so quickly. He appeared taller but it had nothing to do with pride and authority. It's in the way his shadow looming over him on brick walls and it followed him in both darkness and light, making everything a little more bleak, even on the sunniest of days. The younger wolf lived with bloody knuckles and holes in his bedroom walls, wrapped himself in shackles and chains as he hoped and prayed this gift he was promised would come and take the pain away.

(It didn't.)  
  
Kira spent every day struggling with a side of herself that Lydia wished didn't exist. Something inside of her was taking the girl away, picking at her edges and stealing her smile with fire that didn't belong on her body. Eventually, it had forced her out of town to a safety that Lydia isn't sure existed. She took Scott's hope, his smile, his control with her, making him succumb to the useless feeling he hated.

(But it lived in his chest and bit at his heart.)

The boy had been beaten, broken, stabbed and torn apart - only to get back up and watch the girl he loved walk away.

But that isn't why Lydia reads books, not really. The girl picks up her novels with colours too bright and stories too happy to shield herself from the boy with messy hair and eyes rimmed with red and lilac and blue. She hides from the boy who looks like he hadn't slept in a week, who doesn't eat when he's supposed to and only grunts responses instead of the quick, sharp words she used to love hearing. She hides from the boy who doesn't look at her.

It's been months since he watched her bleed on the cold floor of the station, months since he held her against his body in Eichen house. The short days had passed where he hadn't left her side, making sure she was okay and her stitches didn't hurt and did she need a ride to school?

(No, but she sat in the front of his Jeep every morning anyway, just to be near him.)

And then Theo tore them apart, a little at a time. He hurt and he killed and he tore his way through town as a hurricane so dark that it took Lydia a while to see the sun again. She's bruised in places that no one saw and her body is a galaxy of colours that only came from enduring the pain that was forced upon her. She was tired, so tired for weeks and days and hours on end.

(She still is.)  
  
'Cause everything is a little out of place, as if the belongings in your room were moved just a centimetre to the right. Everything felt wrong and as if she isn't supposed to be there, isn't supposed to talk. No one really spoke that much anymore, not really - and when they did, they yelled and shouted and fought for control that no one really had a grip on anymore.  
Lydia preferred it when Stiles snapped and let himself shout, whether it was at Scott, Malia or even the door on his closet that wouldn't close properly - she didn't care. 

She got to hear his voice and that isn't something she hadn't been accustomed to. His words had an edge to them now and his voice is always hoarse and it vibrated through her like a bass line. Stiles didn't speak to her, not now, but he's still there (his heart is beating and his blood is in his veins) and after everything that had happened recently, Lydia couldn't grudge that.

(She tried really hard not to.)

Weeks and weeks had passed, with her in the corner, hidden behind books, before she realised that the yells she is so used to came from Malia more than normal. Stiles would retaliate with bites and snaps and soon, she is so aware that they were falling apart. Scott would look at her and shrug, his mouth shut tight and the truth kept safe inside 'cause Lydia knew he would know what was going on. But, like Liam and Hayden and anyone else who dared to get involved, she feigned ignorance and kept her curls as an auburn curtain around her pages. 

Hope had bloomed in her chest one day when Stiles showed up in Scott's room without Malia, and it crushed her ribs when he had announced that the coyote wouldn't be showing up at all that day. There is no big announcement or declaration, but Lydia could see it in the little brightness of his eyes and the way he held his shoulders a tad straighter. When Scott sought out her gaze amongst the sunlit room and nodded with a soft smile, she knew they were over and things weren't going to be as hard anymore.

When Kira returned, Scott became Scott and Lydia became used to his laugh once again and the way it warmed her insides. He crushed her in his arms one day by the lockers at school, his eyes full of sorrow as he muttered apologies into her hair that were softer than clouds and filled with desperation. Lydia let him, knowing that no amount of protest would make him feel better.

(She knew him too well.)

She let her alpha become her alpha again, accepting his protection as if it had never left (it hadn't, not really). With Kira and Scott's laughter, Summer followed with the sun and freshly cut grass in tow and it became apparent that it's only Stiles that wanted to be left in the dark.   
  
Soon, the feeling of being out of place isn't so subtle anymore. It consumed Lydia, it etched her world in grey and it followed her from the classroom to her bed. Things were still hard and despite the fact that Malia had moved on to trace her Mother, Stiles is still cloaked in a state of sadness, trapped the glass jar of his own world. It had been five weeks since he had spoken to her and nothing is better and nothing is fixed.

After six weeks of silence from Stiles, Lydia had let go of the hope that danced in her chest, the spark that she's sure is keeping her heart beating. The lifeline she had clung to slipped from her fingers and the girl had settled into her new life without Stiles. The boy is there, amongst her other friends but he rarely opened his lips to speak and when he did, it's to murmur to Scott or grunt at his father.

But one day at lunch when the only noise is the clamour of normal, happy students around them, Stiles walked past the empty seat next to Scott and pulled the chair out from beside Lydia.   
It grated and scraped against the tiles and it sent a jolt down Lydia's spine but she looked away from her textbook and found that those goddamn amber eyes were actually looking down at her.

He didn't speak, he didn't smile. But he sat next to her, his body so close to her own that she forgot that he smelled like pine and mint and Stiles. His complexion is still pale, his eyes still too tired and his hair falling over his forehead. It's a shock to her system when his arm brushed against her own and she could feel the warmth of his skin on hers. Lydia expected him to be cold, just like he had become. 

(He didn't speak, he didn't smile.)  
  
But Stiles licked his lips nervously in a way that is so Stiles and for the first time in months, the girl saw the boy she loved and tears makes her eyes glassy. The world was still blurry and tilted on it's side, but Stiles was sitting next to her and Kira was smiling softly from the other side of the table.

(Lydia was still out of place, but Stiles fit in perfectly beside her.)

 

 


	3. Hiraeth.

**Hiraeth** :

_(n.)_ _A homesickness for a place you cannot return to; or that never was._

Lydia's kingsized bed has become too big. The cotton sheets and vast mattress too plush and wide for her own tiny frame. She could only warm one little space at a time, the rest of the bed cold and empty around her and she drowned in it.

(Sometimes, she's sure she is going to.)

The nights seem darker now and it has nothing to do with the winter that lay outside, the ice that creates lace patterns on the roads and window frames. It holds an edge, a danger that she thought she would have left behind with barbie dolls and tea parties. But at the age of nineteen, Lydia is so much more aware of the monsters that lay under the bed.

(The ones that had the same brown eyes as her friend and could create lakes and rivers of red, red blood in her English classroom.)

She sleeps with her door open, the hallway light flooding in like a small slither of safety. Her mother understands, or at least she tried to, and she would wish her daughter goodnight from her doorway, leaving it open with a smile that is always laced with upset and concern.  
Lydia checks her windows before crawling into bed, rattling each handle and lock, tightening until it wouldn't move, until it leaves red indents on her palms. There are never any figures that stand under the streetlights outside her home, no shadows lurking by her porch. She isn't living in a bad horror movie but she checks, Lydia always checked.  
  
That didn't stop her lying in her bed at night, watching the hours go by before her eyes became too heavy, stinging with the sleep that she so indignantly refused. 'Cause Fear lurked over her, a word that now had a capital letter in her vocabulary. It became it's own person, a thing that held shape and had it's own thoughts, hovering by her bedside like a bad halloween decoration, it's skin rotting and it's breath rancid. It would whisper to her about death and evil, threatening her with creatures that no campfire story could fathom.

But it isn't Fear that caused her to avoid sleep. It isn't Fear that makes an ache settle in her stomach, that makes her twist and turn at night, her sheets wrapped around her like vines she couldn't escape. It's an unsettling feeling, an emotion she hadn't really felt before and that makes her head hurt, the genius in her annoyed at the lack of knowledge she had in regards to it.  
Lydia Martin had known pain, both emotional and physical - pain that makes someone bleed until their skin turns grey and their hands shake with red. She knows the stabbing feeling in her chest when someone she loves fall to their knees and take their last breath. Lydia knows longing, she knows love. She's felt frustration and anger, the more intense burn from being mad at someone she cared for. On rare occasions, she knew happiness, she remembered the feeling of laughter in her lungs and the delicious burn that came with it, the satisfying ache that settled in her ribs.

(She knew lust and pleasure too but they hurt to think about.)  
  
It's so different though, it's an anxious mix of terror and heart wrenching sadness, there's a roar in her head that banished sensible, rational thinking. A longing in her chest that she doesn't know what for. Her body, her mind, her fucking _everything_ , craves something and Lydia isn't sure if she could give it what it wants, what it needs.

It went on for weeks, clawing at her from the inside out, making tears form in her eyes that she dashed away from her cheeks with dismissive fingers that shook. It's a colossal ache, a burn in her chest and it stabbed at her and caused her more hurt than ever before. And Lydia, the genius, didn't know how to fix it.

(Not that night anyway.)

One night, after her cell told her it was nearing one am, her fingers tapping delicately at the screen, mindlessly scrolling until she came across a text conversation that hadn't been used in weeks, months. His name screams at her, a name she is so used to saying, to speaking out loud through laughter and lips and smiles and teeth. Her lips used to hug it, curl around it with a grin. It stared at her in black and white, unmoving and hard and flat. His name broke her heart. The last message is dated two months ago, from him to her at stupid o'clock in the morning, just like right now:

" _Come over_.''

Her feet touch the floor before she knows what she's doing, her too-long sweatpants tucked under her bare heels and trailing clumsily behind her. She grabs a sweater from the hook on her door, tucking her cell into its pocket as the words on the screen burn into her skin leaving scars she, for once, didn't mind.  
  
Her hands are steady on the steering wheel (or are they? She couldn't tell), her mind set on her destination and the sky is dark and the streets are empty and for once she felt more at ease. She had a plan, an idea and a possible remedy for the pain - this illness that's left her weak and wrecked for nights on end. She hasn't realised she missed Stiles as much as she had until he appeared at his front door, the flicker of the porch light and the shadow of him behind the glass making her heart thunder and the ache in her stomach settle.  
The homesickness died a little when she texted him nothing more than _"I'm at your door_ '', and Lydia didn't think any other words were needed, no context, no explanation.

(They weren't.)

Apparently, neither did the boy. Stiles is rumpled, his pyjama shorts were creased and he's warm and soft from bed, his hair lacking the usual product he swept through it, leaving him look younger and more vulnerable. But he isn't confused to see her there. Lydia Martin standing with her arms wrapped around herself, shielding her body from the cold. He had nodded as if he had been expecting her, stepping back and holding the door open, only shutting it when Lydia's foot is on the first stair.  
  
(Stiles sat next to her at lunch and in class now, Malia's old seat empty to the right of them and screaming at Lydia like a siren that isn't to be ignored. He sat beside her, their arms barely brushing as they wrote essays and took notes. He would smile, now and again, on better days, and she would return them when she felt more awake and the red and purple circles under her eyes didn't sting. But they never spoke.)

Standing in his room, Lydia doesn't expect it to be different, even though it is . They're alone, something that hasn't happened in months. She's in his room, surrounded by everything that makes him who he is, the scent of his familiar aftershave clinging to every fucking molecule in the air. It feels so good it hurts. It eases the ache inside her, soothes the pressure that had become so unbearable and when Stiles lifts the blankets and climbs back into bed, nodding at the space beside him in invitation, her heart fucking sings. Lydia isn't cured of this sickness, not just yet, but she knows she's found her medicine.

(And the process of healing is so much easier than she expected.)

'Cause suddenly the bed isn't too big anymore and nothing feels cold. Stiles is warm and his skin is hot and his eyes were golden. They don't touch, not right away, but the air sings with temptation and tension because for the first time in months, he is right fucking there.  
Lydia should have been used to that, to being so close, to lying in his bed, near his bare skin. But last year it was torn away from her and she felt replaced and even now, staring at the sheets in the darkness as she lies on her side, she almost expects to find brown, sunkissed strands of hair that are shorter than hers - left behind by a girl no one talked about.  
She doesn't, only finding the boy staring back at her, his eyes guarded and his Adam's apple bobbing nervously in his throat. It's awkward and uneasy but it's fine because it's real, and in a world with werewolves and evil spirits and Fear with a capital 'F', Lydia's okay with Stiles being the thing she's most afraid of in that moment.

(She's terrified.)

They lay side by side, their backs on the mattress and eyes staring at the ceiling, both of them more awake than they had ever felt in weeks. Something is humming, electricity under their skin, vibrating with an insane need they both thought they had forgotten. But it's there, stinging their throats with words they couldn't say and the scent of Stiles' room mixing with the perfume Lydia's left on his pillow.

(It smells like summers and half written essays, old books and four am coffee, rain soaked sweatshirts and the metallic scent of red liquid they both know too well.)

His eyes on hers left her feeling like a rollercoaster was wracking through her chest and when the boy licks his lips, Lydia knew he had to have felt it too.

(He did.)

Lydia isn't touching him, but she knows his hand is there, close to hers on the mattress and somewhere in the dark a clock is loudly counting the seconds and her heart joins in like thunder in her chest. It almost hurts and it aches and it's so loud Lydia wonders if the boy can hear it, feel it pounding through her bones and the mattress they share.

(One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight...)

She can sense it, the barricade around it him that fizzes and pops and creates a firework display inside her. Blues, greens, lilacs, reds and pinks explode behind her eyelids, a stark contrast to the darkness that sits outside and she keeps her eyes closed, just so the colours will stay with her a little longer. She doesn't see much of them anymore 'cause the skies are still a little bleak and it rains too much to see the sun. Sometimes, she wishes she didn't have to open her eyes at all. 

Her pinky finds the side of his hand first, big and calloused and world worn beside her own and it's almost accidental (almost). Her nails are shorter than he remembers, bitten down and void of the shiny polish that usually catches his eye. It grazes along the length of his hand, making his own fingers twitch at the touch. The hairs on Stiles' arms stood on end, despite the warmth of his house, the new source of heat in his bed and it's a painful reaction that his body hasn't been used to.

('Cause he doesn't think he's really felt anything in a long, long time.)

Her touch comes again and again, stroking along that same piece of skin until it hummed underneath her. Lydia's eyes were still closed or she would have seen Stiles' lips part, his breath hitch. Just like hers did when his palm covered her hand.

(...thirty one, thirty two, thirty three, thirty four, thirty five, tick, tick, tick...)

He's hesitant and familiar, and so _warm._ Stiles' hand shakes, just a tiny bit, just enough to let her feel his nerves. Lydia doesn't move, doesn't dare breath, terrified of scaring him away, ruining everything. She keeps her eyes shut, tight enough so little white stars fill her vision, mixing with colours and creating a galaxy just for her to swim in. Seconds pass, minutes roll back and still that steady hum filled the air. His hand is still over hers, secure and real and something to hold onto. Finally - slowly, carefully - Lydia turns her palm upwards underneath his touch, moving until she can actually feel him herself. Nerve endings come alight and nothing in the world has ever felt so fucking intimate. Something inside her shakes and it comes free with every rattling breath she pushes past her lips.  
  
It 's monumental, it's surreal and when Stiles' hand gently curls around her own, his long fingers splayed clumsily between her own, a new ache in her stomach starts, one that she feeds with fire and ideas of lips on skin and thoughts that are dirty and make her weak. It's just his hand in hers, his palms rough and boyish against her own. But it's new and different and goddamn frustratingly familiar all at once. Her pinky maps out the scar beside the fold of his thumb, where the skin is soft and sensitive. She knows where it starts, where it stops.

(She was there when he got it, curses flying and brows pinched together in annoyance as the pizza cutter had clattered to the floor.)

She stopped the bleeding. Wrapped his poor hand in gauze. Made him laugh seconds after. Dropped his hand with guilt cracking her smile when his cell beeped with a text from Malia.

But Malia isn't there anymore and Lydia is in Stiles' bed, her hand in his and the astronomic sense of relief beating wildly in her chest. They lie in silence, side by side together until Lydia becomes too warm. She moves hesitantly, sitting up in bed and only pulling her hand away from his when she needs to, enjoying his touch to the very last second.

She yanks the hoody over her head clumsily, her hair getting stuck under the collar, the material suffocating her as she tries to pull without making too much of a fuss. Nerves wreck her, the sense of Stiles watching her make her fidgety, uneasy.

(She's panicking, stupidly, desperate to lie back down with him.)

His fingers find hers amongst the sweater and he helps her with careful hands, pulling her free and dropping the heavy material down by the side of his bed. He sits next to her, the absence of the jumper left the girl in nothing but a thin tank top and their bare arms brush, more skin to make shiver. Stiles is careful when he lies back down, his messy head meeting the pillow and his eyes burning in the dark as he watches Lydia do the same.  
Every move she makes is wary and full of doubt but Stiles curls a hand around her elbow, encouraging her to lie back down beside him, closer this time. Their bodies line up, their shoulders meet and the curve of Lydia's hips fits into Stiles' side and the air feels fucking impossibly heavy.

"I'm sorry I'm not an easy person to be with.''

Lydia's eyes close on their own accord, loaded with the harsh weight of his words. Her throat is tight and it stings to swallow cause her mouth is so dry. She hears the boy shift beside her and she's thankful that it's closer to her than further away. Their sides are lined up with each others now, heat flowing from skin to skin. The girl's eyes are still closed when she shakes her head, and she's not even sure that Stiles has seen her silent protest.

(But she can't open her eyes, not yet, because tears are still clinging to her lashes.)

Silence folds over them, as comforting as a storm and her heart is still the thunder that accompanies the ticking clock in the shadows. She turns, slowly, softly, onto her side until her chest his pressed against his arm and her knee bumps into the side of his. Her eyes are open now and it makes Stiles swallow heavily and Lydia can see the change in him, the heavy bob of his Adam's apple in his throat, the jarring breath that makes his chest rise and fall.

"Stiles, no."

Her words are simple and quiet but the conviction that she says them with has Stiles reeling. They don't talk a lot, not now. And when they do, it's with causal words that are usually drowned out with the chatter of their other friends. But his name on her lips as him falling, hard and fast and out of control.

(A lot of that might have had something to do with her being in his bed but he isn't so sure.)

He feels her everywhere and Lydia had always been warm and soft but suddenly she was burning him, her bare skin on his and her hair licking fire over his shoulder and neck. She was close and his fingers twitched and his body aches to pull her even closer. Stiles was too aware of the strength in the way she held herself, even horizontally. He could feel the slight muscle in her abdomen, how it stretches out along his hipbone. Her toes press into his feet to hold herself closer to him, the girl refusing to let something as trivial as gravity to pull her away from the boy.

(No, Lydia held herself against him until Stiles turned and faced her, holding her there himself.)

She's shocked when he does it, her eyes falling into wide circles as he tumbles into her, careless and without hesitation. It's so different to how they acted when she first crawled into his bed, so gently and with so much care and with nerves clinging to their skin.  
Now, his hand fits into her side, holding onto the dip of her waist in a way that has her breathless. Stiles' hands are rough and warm and big. They span the width of her body and more, curling around her side until his finger tips are pressing into her spine and bringing her a little closer to him.

(She's not sure if it's deliberate but she doesn't move away.)

They're face to face now and Lydia's sure she's never felt so nervous. There's a drumming in her ears, in her chest, in her bones - and she's not sure if it's her heart or his.

(It's both.)

And the boy looks so sad and lost and there's tears in her eyes again although she's sure they never really dried themselves away from before. His hand is still on her waist and his fingers are spread out across her back and her own fists are trapped between them, pressing into his chest. She tries to relax, to even her breathing - to say something that will make the boy feel better because right then, there's nothing Lydia's wants more than Stiles to smile.

Her hands relax from the fists she's made with them, her fingers uncurling before finding purchase in his t-shirt, a soft one that's mossy green and has holes in the hem. But she finds herself hooking her fingertips into the collar, her thumb stroking along the soft cotton and the hot, bare skin underneath. Stiles' breath stutters in his chest and he can only watch how Lydia brings herself a little closer, just a tiny but nearer. It's enough for his eyes to drop to her lips, watching how they pout ever so slightly in concentration. 'Cause she's running lengths along his collarbone, letting her fingertips fall into the dips of his clavicles and he can only let her warm his bones with her touch as he grips her waist a little tighter in return. Stiles almost shakes his head, his eyes still trained on her lips that Lydia keeps insisting on wetting with her tongue.

The boy is almost nineteen and he's been aware of girls and porn for years. He's been with Heather and Malia and that one technicolor girl at that party but he swears on the stars and the moon and the planets that he's never been this hard.  
It's almost embarrassing because each touch is so innocent and he's not spoken to the girl properly in weeks. But it's Lydia and somewhere deep down (a place that's not so secret) he know's he's hers and she's his.

So he tries not to blush and Lydia tries to keep her breathing even 'cause somehow, some way, she just seems to _know_. They're not really touching, just with wandering hands and soft fingers but Stiles' entire body is tense and there must be something in his eyes as he watches her take her bottom lip between her teeth.

("It's okay", she whispers to him.)

And that's that.

It's hard for him to swallow when there's tears threatening his eyes and turning the girl before him into blurred swirls of copper and rose gold. But he holds onto her, his fingers probably leaving imprints in her skin. She's closer again and this time, Stiles' thinks it's him that moved towards her.

(It was.)

But it's been lonely and cold and so long without her. From when she was stolen from him to all those months ago when another girl took him away from her too. It's been quiet and harsh between them, with nothing but stolen looks and dreams that make him wake up panting. He avoided her for too long in school, let her name die on his lips in between classes.

But she's here now and she's everywhere that Stiles' didn't think she'd ever be.

(So when he falls into her a little more, he blames it on the shock of her being in his bed at three am.)

His lips find the corner of hers first, 'cause it's a little dark and he's terrified of her response. It's not really a kiss and his heart is battling its way out of his ribcage as his hand trembles it's way up and across Lydia's. His mouth lands there for a second, maybe less, and he pulls back only a mere inch. He waits in the dark, feeling how Lydia's body stills under his touch. His own is begging him to move, to rock into her and gain some friction but she's still lying beside him, unmoving and unblinking. He counts to five, admits defeat and embarrassment and lets his hand slip from her waist...

(He doesn't know what to do, where to go.)

...but the girl catches him, her hand falling on his cheek, cradling his jaw that's rougher with stubble than it looks. Her fingers splay across sharp cheekbones that have a little colour seeping into the skin. Her eyes are as wide as his and there's something hiding in them that makes Stiles inhale sharply, just as her mouth lands on his.  
It's not fast, or passionate. It's not more skilled than the boys attempt. In fact, it's slow and a little clumsy and unsure but it burns and Stiles revels in it. Her lips lands on the edge of his too, slow and pushing at his own gently. He feels her breath across his cheek and his hands fly back to her waist, pulling her up against him fully. Bone to bone and lips to lips as he catches her bottom one between his own. Lydia sighs and Stiles groans.

(Both sounds are low and vibrate through their bodies, the darkness and it starts a fire somewhere between them.)

They kiss, again and again, gentle pecks that they press into each other's lips until it becomes messy and clumsy and Lydia is whining into Stiles' open mouth. He nods, a silent agreement, telling the girl he'll give her whatever she fucking wants.

(He does, 'cause he helps the girl clamber gracelessly onto his lap.)

The horrible, sinking feeling that had taken up home in Lydia's stomach had been replaced with an incessant burning instead. A need that started at the base of her spine and flooded between her thighs. It helps when she grinds her hips down on her boy, mewling into the dark air of his room as his large palms help guide her over where he's hard. He hisses, sitting up to meet her until he found her lips with his again, frantic and so desperate that he cried out when her tongue licks into him.

Her fingers dig their way into his hair, a dark mess that's probably was long overdue a cut but she doesn't care. It's soft and it curls a little under her touch and she clings to him as he thrusts his hips from underneath. His cotton shorts do nothing to conceal the state of him, the affect she has on his body. But when Lydia pulls back slightly and meets Stiles' gaze, she finds that he probably doesn't care. His pupils are blown wide and his eyes are hooded, grazing over her own face in a way that's far too tender for their greedy actions.

"Lydia."

(His voice breaks a little and hands cling to her waist as if she was going to up and leave him.)

"Sh, Stiles, it's okay."

(Lydia's voice cracks too.)

"I'm sorry."

He pushes his face into her neck at his admission and the girl is thankful that he can't see the tear that rolls down her cheek to her lips. She nods, hoping he could feel her movements against him.

(He does, 'cause he holds her to him a little tighter.)

"I missed you."

The sentence leaves his chest in a wracking sob, a stuttering breath that knocks the wind out of Lydia's chest, evaporating every feeling of homesickness from her body. They cling to each other, rocking back and forth slightly as Lydia nods frantically, Stiles' lips finding hers again as she pushes her chest against his. They both taste like tears and the salt makes their kisses taste a little bitter but it's good and it's real and they don't stop until Stiles' hands stagger their way up Lydia's ribs, taking her tank top with him.

(It joins her sweater on the floor. So does his shirt.)

There's more skin to touch and kiss and when the girl shivers, it's not because she's cold. She learns that Stiles' hands cover the width of her back, can grip her thighs until his fingers curl all the way around her. She discovers there's a permanent blush on his cheeks and it only grows when she kisses her way down his sternum, over his hipbones.

(She learns that the boy also likes to be in control, to feel her stretched out underneath him, to whisper things in her ear that makes her toes curl and her eyes flutter shut.)

Stiles hums and his voice breaks and his breath cracks when she places her lips in other places. He swears into the night air when she crawls back on top of him, eyes pleading and mouth swollen and rosy. His fingers dig into her skin, his lips skate over bruises that he didn't know she still had.

When they fall asleep, the sun is turning the walls of his bedroom amber and gold and they're both naked, their skin burning and pressed into the others. There's dried tears on both their cheeks, bruised kisses on their necks and along the indents of their hips.

(There's no Fear. No sickness lurking in the shadows of Lydia's body.)

 


End file.
